


Kings or Pawns

by sewer_seance



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: ...UNLESS, Crime AU, Crime Boss Jay Gatsby, Film Noir, Haha jk, M/M, Minor Violence, Private Eye Nick Carraway, enemies to lovers to friends who are still lovers, jordan baker is nonbinary, kick tom into the sun, what if we were natural enemies and we kissed an we're both boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewer_seance/pseuds/sewer_seance
Summary: "In this life, we are either kings or pawns..."Nick Carraway is the city's most prolific PI hunting down its most formidable crime boss, the ever elusive Mr. J. Gatsby. However, when a stakeout turns sour, Nick may be getting himself into a stickier situation than he originally bargained for...
Relationships: Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 16
Kudos: 65





	1. What Did You Hear?

In the lazy hours when the day begins to slide into night and every window in the city is set ablaze from the exhausted sun, Nick Carraway waited in an abandoned warehouse on the bad side of town. He lit a cigarette and pulled his watch from his pocket. He suspected he would be waiting awhile. Still, it was good to be early for these kinds of things. Sneaking in late could have disastrous consequences. Of course, as the city's most successful P.I., Detective Carraway was more than used to the procedure of a stake out by now. The waiting didn't bother him. He was a patient man, quick in getting his results and skilled in staying above it all. He frowned a little. This case had been...different. If he had known how long this particular job was going to drag out, he wondered if he still would have accepted it. 

Most likely yes. The Buchanans, his clients, weren't the type of people you could say no to. Saying no to their money wasn't the best decision either. This type of work, this type of life, well, it was dangerous, and if Nick was going to continuously put his own neck on the line, then he was damn well going to make sure it was worth it. 

Mr. Tom Buchanan had marched into his office a week or two ago. He had slapped a considerable bundle of cash on Nick's desk, completely disregarding his secretary's protests about him not having an appointment scheduled. She only returned to her desk after Nick assured her it was alright. 

"You're Mr. Nick Carraway?" The man demanded, arms crossed staunchly across his chest. 

"That's right," Nick gestured for the man to sit. He didn't.

"I hear you're the very best Private Eye money can hire."

"That's right, too," Nick smiled, lacing his fingers together and assessing the man before him. He seemed to be a very indignant fellow, the type of person who was used to getting their own way and was explosive when they didn't. He was built like a brute, though his suit screamed 'important' and 'wealth'. 

"What can I do for you, Mr...?"

"Buchanan, Tom Buchanan," he replied gruffly. He began to pace in front of Nick's desk, gaze furiously set on him all the while. Nick guessed the anger wasn't directed at him. 

"I require your services," Mr. Buchanan spoke vehemently, jabbing his finger in Nick's direction as he spoke. "I've been to five other offices today, including the police, and every single one turned me away, claiming that what I asked of them was impossible. Is it impossible for you?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know. You haven't asked yet," Nick interjected, knowing it would make little difference to the raging giant.

"Ludicrous, that I, of _all people,_ would be treated this way. An injustice has been done and I demand to see it rectified!"

"Mr. Buchanan," Nick raised his voice a little here, "I understand your frustration, but I'm going to have to ask you to tell me what your case is now, as calmly and as clearly as you can." Tom stopped pacing for a moment, and looked at Nick, really looked at him, for the first time since his rather rude arrival. He plopped himself rather forcefully in the wooden chair in front of Nick's desk. After a few steadying breaths, it seemed that Tom was ready to have an adult conversation.

"I have been cheated."

"Wife?" Nick asked sympathetically, though secretly he was not surprised. 

"No!" Tom's anger flared for a moment again. Nick held his hands up, yielding a hasty apology. "I have been cheated out of a good sum of money from a phony real estate deal. I was promised land, acres of supposedly 'high-quality' space upstate. They asked for cash, up front. I went to inspect my purchase only to arrive to find that it was a few crappy lots that some other buffoons had been duped into buying as well!"

Nick had to hold in a groan and struggled to keep his eyes from rolling all the way to the back of his head. People like Mr. Buchanan were always throwing away their money. The case was stale; nothing worth sticking his neck out for, no matter how many wads of cash Mr. Buchanan threw at him. Besides, Nick thought it served this animal right. Too right he should be scammed for paying cash for some land he had never seen before. Mr. Buchanan was still ranting. 

"I tried tracking down the scoundrel myself, but people like you exist so that people of my caliber don't have to do all the legwork themselves." Nick managed a forced smile through gritted teeth. _Ass._

"I did turn up one name though, when I asked the other men who had been scammed," Tom leaned forward, eyes gleaming menacingly, "Gatsby." 

Nick's eyebrows raised. 

"Gatsby? As in Mr. J. Gatsby, King of Manhattan?"

Mr. Buchanan nodded triumphantly. Now _this_ was something. Gatsby, self-dubbed King of Manhattan, was the most feared, most respected crime boss in all the city, if not the entire Northeast. He was also the most elusive. Nick had heard his name before, only whispered. Nobody could pin anything on the infamous Mr. Gatsby. People had tried before, and they either came up empty handed, or were never heard from again. Even more confounding, no one had actually seen Mr. Gatsby before. Whenever a scent of his activities was picked up, he was never present. Only his henchmen were ever caught at the scene of the crime, and even they had never seen Mr. Gatsby. There were degrees upon degrees of separation between himself and his work. Those other offices Tom had gone to were right: what he asked was impossible. 

"I'll take up your case, Mr. Buchanan," Nick reached across the table to shake his hand. "Of course, I require appropriate compensation. The other offices were right when they told you this was impossible...for them. Not for me."

Mr. Buchanan leapt to his feet and grabbed Nick with both hands, shaking wildly. "I can give you eight hundred at the start, and eight hundred when you get that crook behind bars," Mr. Buchanan beamed. 

Nick's legs nearly gave out from under him on the very spot. "...That works just fine," Nick smiled, feeling very pale and very wobbly. Eight hundred was more than he had made from any job before, sixteen hundred if he could pull it off. Mr. Buchanan pulled out his wallet, adding to the cash he had thrown on Nick's desk when he had first arrived until the pile totaled eight hundred. He clasped Nick's hand again. 

"You'll have the results very soon Mr. Buchanan, and I believe you'll be very pleased."

"I better be," Mr. Buchanan said, his response a little too firm for Nick's taste, before sweeping out of his office as suddenly as he came in. 

That was two weeks ago. Nick's usual timeline was a day or two, three days if the case was really difficult. Knowing this, Mr. Buchanan began to crack down on the amount of time Nick had left, threatening to take his business elsewhere. The only thing keeping him from leaving, Nick believed, was that there was no one else in this city bold enough to go after Mr. Gatsby. No one except Nick. 

Considering Mr. Gatsby's nature, it was a real stroke of luck that anything had turned up as soon as two weeks into the investigation. Baker, a well connected individual who had taken a liking to Nick's scrappy methods and agreed to be his occasional informant on movements in the criminal underworld, had approached him yesterday. Apparently, a big trade-off was going down after sunset in one of the abandoned warehouses by the docks. Mr. Gatsby was rumored to be in attendance himself. It was the perfect opportunity. 

Stakeouts were easy enough as long as you knew how to keep still and quiet. Arriving early was another vital component; it lessened the chances of capture, and by all means, Nick wanted to avoid running into this particular crowd tonight. The criminals showing up tonight were at the very top of the pyramid, the creme de la creme of Manhattan's underworld. 

Nick traveled light when out in the field. He carried a pencil and notepad to jot down any names, places, or times he picked up while observing, a Kodak vest pocket camera which he kept easily hidden and accessible in his coat, and, of course, his trusty emergency pistol. He was not a violent man, but he wasn't a stupid one either. 

He had positioned himself on a sort of catwalk that hung over the warehouse. He crouched low in the corner, situating himself in a way where he could see the entirety of the ground floor from above, but where he couldn't be spotted from below. From his location, he also had access to a window, which he kept open, and the fire escape. Now all he had to do was smoke and wait. He glanced out the window, the glare of the retiring sun growing softer on the buildings. It could be minutes now, or maybe the lurkers would wait a few more hours until the dark of night really set in. 

The first of Nick's targets didn't keep him waiting long. A man, looking exactly how one might picture a seedy liquor supplier would look, arrived first, a couple larger men bringing a good number of crates in with them. Once the crates were arranged, they waited silently-tensely-for the other party to arrive. The nicest term that could be applied to these men was 'thugs'. Just looking at them, watching them haul in their goods, muscles rippling, made Nick feel infinitely grateful for his remote hiding spot. However, now they seemed coiled in fearful apprehension. Whoever was capable of scaring these men, Nick wasn't looking forward to meeting them. 

After a few minutes longer, when the sky outside had truly begun to blacken, noises could be heard outside the front doors of the warehouse. A few of the men below snapped to attention, but Nick remained resolutely firm in his pose, as if any movement from him would compromise the structural integrity of the building. Each passing second was weighted, until the front doors slowly opened. A group of five men, well dressed compared to the other faction, waltzed in. In their midst was a sixth man, his face blocked by the silky black fedora perched on his head like a crown. This, Nick realized, must be Gatsby. He slipped out his pocket camera, holding it at the ready. The man removed his hat and passed it to one of his men. Nick snapped his camera. 

Mr. Gatsby looked nothing at all how Nick had imagined him. Where he was expecting an older man, with a sour face and receding hairline, Gatsby was quite the opposite. He had a head full of golden hair which was fashionably slicked back from his face. He wore an, Nick couldn't help but notice, extremely well tailored suit. Black leather gloves adorned his hands. The bone structure of his face was without a doubt the most attractive that Nick had ever come across, his skin seemingly free of imperfections. Even from this height, Nick could see the youthful brightness residing in his eyes and the carefree gleam in his grin. 

_Angel._

"Lucien!" He greeted the leader of the other group with open arms. His voice, with a timbre like a finely tuned cello, was...happy. Nick didn't know what else to call it. Its resonance sent a warm feeling rushing through his stiff limbs. Lucien didn't seem to share the same sentiments as Nick. He merely nodded, managing a rigid smile. 

"I trust you have the goods," Gatsby more stated than asked, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "And in the quality I requested." His smile this time was not so carefree, but hard, danger lingering just beneath the tinge of rose in his cheeks. 

"Yes, of course," Lucien replied, a thick accent muddling his words as they floated up to Nick. 

"As you know, I was so disappointed in Virallo," Gatsby sighed, adjusting one of his gloves. He always seemed to be fiddling with some aspect of his being. "He tried to pass off piss poor quality alcohol after we had already come to a financial agreement. After such an incident, I always like to double-check to make sure I'm getting what I paid for. You don't mind if...?" Gatsby gestured towards the crates, trailing off mid sentence. 

"Feel free, sir," Lucien stepped aside as a few of Gatsby's men advanced to open not just one, but all the crates. It was a very thorough operation. Of course, a man who made his living scamming others would want to make sure that his purchases were legit. Nick tried to get a picture of the bottles. This was no small matter. If the labels were accurate to what was in the bottles, not only was this big money, but was in extraordinary violation of prohibition laws. 

With a lapse in the conversation, Nick began to scribble down some of the things he had heard so far. Normally, he would've been writing all along but he was...distracted. That suit was _incredibly_ fit to Gatsby's form. It kept drawing Nick's eye to where no decent eye should ever go. Nick refocused his attention towards Gatsby, taking pictures instead of simply staring at the man. He was working a case, an official investigation. Like always, he would have to ignore his obscene thoughts that appeared whenever he came across a man that struck his fancy. He wasn't unaware of his peculiar tastes, nor the situation his feelings put him in, but now was not the time to dwell on these intricate matters. 

Eventually, the alcohol passed the inspection of Gatsby's men, and the order was given to reseal the crates. 

"This turned out to be quite the fruitful exchange," Gatsby said to Lucien, satisfied on his end. "However, should I find that any bottle dips even the slightest bit below my standards..." Gatsby didn't need to finish the thought. 

"I wouldn't dream of cheating you, Mr. Gats-"

The strike was so fast, that even Nick, watching intently as he was, couldn't see it coming. He jolted a little, clanging against the metal railing of the catwalk. He froze immediately, knowing that if anyone had heard him jump, he was a dead man. Luckily for him, the impact of Gatsby's assault was so forceful, the sound of the leather glove against Lucien's cheek echoed in the empty warehouse. The sound of Nick's slip-up was covered. 

"I would think twice before you presume to address me in public, Lucien," Gatsby hissed. "You never know who might be listening." Lucien was hunched over, cradling his face. After a moment, he rose to meet Gatsby. Nick's own face screwed up in a wince. Already, the powerful backhand was beginning to take effect. The right side of Lucien's face was red and swelling at a rapid rate. The skin of his cheekbone was broken and bleeding. 

"I misspoke," he muttered, "forgive me." 

"Next time you will not be so lucky," Gatsby warned before strutting from the warehouse, leaving his men to carry the crates out after him. As soon as Gatsby was gone, Lucien and his men were all too quick in leaving the way they came, relieved to have survived, somewhat, an encounter with the King of Manhattan. 

Nick remained where he was, consumed with a sort of euphoria at what he had just witnessed. Not only had he successfully observed underworld activity, but he was now the only non-criminal witness to the visage of Mr. J. Gatsby, and the crime boss was none the wiser. Entering this warehouse mere hours earlier, Nick had considered the possibility that his chances of making it out of here were slim to none. He had to swallow a cheer for his good fortune. He still had to wait for Gatsby and his men to clear out before making his own move, but he was more than fine with that. He had pictures. He had notes. He had Gatsby's face ingrained in his mind's eye, and what a face it was. Nick thought back to it now. Even when it was contorted with anger, terrifying in a way that only a killer's face could be, he was beautiful. Nick was so engaged in pondering if he should have appreciated the view more when he had the chance that he failed to notice the telltale sign of creaking metal behind him in time. Someone else had joined him on the catwalk. 

He jumped up from his crouched position, but it was no good. The extended period of time spent huddled up had weakened his joints, and he had been so caught up in his own head that his response time was nil. He didn't even have time to turn around. One of his arms was roughly pinned behind his back. His other arm had to occupy itself from keeping the hand at his throat from cutting off his air supply. Nick began to struggle, he had learned self defense for moments like this, but the ever so slight pressure of a knife against the small of his back ceased his attempts. He was yanked back into a hard body, a leg wrapping around one of his own, completely locking him into place. Nick was utterly incapacitated. 

He felt a face appear next to his own and the voice of Mr. J. Gatsby whispered, deadly fierce, into his ear, "Tell me who you are, and exactly how much you heard." 


	2. What Did You Say?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick resolves the issue of being caught, only to find himself saddled with a more difficult, potentially deadly situation. Alternatively, Gatsby tries to interrogate and Nick tries to date.

Heart ready to leap from his chest and so utterly seized with fear that if his captor weren’t holding him up he would have already collapsed, Nick Carraway found his night sliding from a triumphant high to a nightmarish reality. Mr. J. Gatsby, the most feared crime boss in the entire city, had Nick helplessly pinned against him. 

“Tell me who you are, and exactly how much you heard.” 

Meaningless, panic-induced thoughts were the only things going through Nick’s mind. He could not think, he only knew that he had to. Whatever he came up with, it had to be now and it had to be something that wouldn’t get him killed. The not-so-gentle reminder of the brutal assault he had witnessed with the same hand that now held his neck did nothing to calm him. Nick began to formulate a backstory. 

He hadn’t heard anything. He was merely out for his nightly stroll when he got turned around and only just happened upon the scene. In a suit. With his notepad. And his gun. Huddled in an obvious prime spying location in an abandoned warehouse. 

Gatsby would never buy it. Hell, Nick couldn’t even buy it and it was his own story. He silently cursed himself. What was happening tonight? He was smarter than this, faster than this. But with a knife oh so strategically poised above his spine and his arm pinned between his back and Gatsby’s firm chest, it was difficult to form any sort of coherent thought, let alone words themselves. Embarrassingly enough, fear wasn’t the only distracting emotion blocking Nick’s ability to think. He tried ordering his heated nerves to settle down enough for him to focus on something other than the intoxicating warmth emanating from the body behind him. The pathetic excuse for a cover story clearly wasn’t going to work. Then again, he couldn’t exactly smart off and tell the truth either. As much as he hated to do so, bargaining seemed to be his best chance. 

“How about you just slip that pretty little blade back to wherever you pulled it from, we’ll go out for coffee and we can talk where we’re visible...and in public.” There was a pregnant pause before a gentle, derisively amused huff blew past Nick’s ear. 

“And why on Earth would I agree to something like that?”

A good question. “Because it’d be a shame to kill me before I got the chance to warn you about what’s coming,” Nick hoped his voice was even enough to hide the blatant lie. If Nick was killed right here, right now, no one else would be coming after Gatsby, but he didn’t need to know that just yet. Another long moment passed. Nick could physically feel the wavering thread by which his life hung. 

The pressure of the knife’s tip disappeared from the small of his back. 

“For your own health, I wouldn’t recommend pulling any fast ones,” Jay said as he loosened his grip on Nick enough for the detective to run around. They weren’t locked together anymore, but Nick was still close enough to get a hint of Gatsby’s body heat. This close he could see the soft periwinkle color of his eyes, and though his expression was severe at the moment, Nick could see where the dimples resided in his cheeks. Even with a knife still in his hand, it was hard to believe that someone so angellicaly handsome could be capable of the things that Gatsby had done. Nick couldn’t help but appreciate the view for a moment until Gatsby cocked an eyebrow. 

“After you,” he gestured towards the fire escape. Gatsby made sure Nick remained in front of him all the way down and to the car that was still waiting for Gatsby out front. They remained silent the entire drive to the closest open cafe, Nick positive his heart was seconds away from bursting, overwhelmed in fearful anticipation. Gatsby seemed to be as cool as a cucumber, fiddling idly with the cane that had been waiting for him in the backseat. They pulled along the curve and Gatsby gave his driver the order to head home for the night. Linking arms with Nick and swinging his cane almost out of habit, Gatsby strolled nonchalantly into the cafe as if they were good friends out for a night cap. Nick tried to play along. He didn’t want to tip anyone off with his nervous behavior. Unwanted attention might aggravate the crime boss on his arm. 

Gatsby led them to a table in a far corner of the cafe where they were partially obscured from view and where no one could hear their conversation. The private setting shot a burst of panic through Nick. He could only console himself in the logic that even though the table was private, they remained in a generally public place, and Gatsby wouldn’t dare to do anything to him in public...right? A waitress swung by to take their order and then there was nothing left standing in the way of the inevitable confrontation with Gatsby. Nick hadn’t forgotten the fact that he had only made it this far because of a lie. He wondered how much further he would get. 

Nick opted that his best chance at a power move of any kind was in declining to speak first. Unfortunately, Gatsby had apparently decided to take the same route. They sat in silence, Nick very cooly not looking in Gatsby’s direction and Gatsby staring straight at him, hands folded on the table. The only words spoken was their thanks to the waitress when she arrived with their coffees. Nick wrapped his hands around his cup, not drinking it but hoping to draw some confidence from its transferred warmth. Gatsby took a small sip and cleared his throat. Thank god, he was going to break the silence. 

“What’s your name?” 

Nick hesitated. He knew better than to give up his name to the King of Manhattan. If he told Gatsby his name and left this diner alive it wouldn’t matter; he’d be dead in a day or two. 

“Tim. Tim Gerald,” Nick replied in a voice that obviously implied that Tim, in fact, was not his name. Gatsby smiled and gave a slight nod of his head in what Nick hoped was respect. 

“Tell me, ‘Tim’, what is it that you do?” Gatsby asked softly, bringing his cup to his lips. Nick blinked, trying to stay alert in the line of questioning, which was easier said than done. Gatsby must have had at least some notion about the way he conducted himself, the subtle sensuality in the way he formed his words, crooked his smile, or tilted his head. Every action was controlled and elegant; it was like watching a dance. 

“I’m a tailor,” Nick responded flatly. 

“Come on now, tailor Tim, let’s have the truth.” 

“I’m a P.I.” Nick bit his tongue too late. His mouth was dry yet the back of his shirt was soaked. That was already too much information. Two slip ups in one night. Nick wasn’t himself. He would blame it on some oncoming illness, but he knew the real reason. 

“A P.I.?” Gatsby said in a sing-songy tone. Nick chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn’t bother affirming what he had already revealed. “You’re either very good at your job, or very bad. I’ll find out in due time,” Gatsby's smile sent shivers through Nick’s body.The crime boss leaned forward and Nick found himself copying the motion. 

“Who sent you, I wonder?” he asked in a honeyed whisper. 

“Client confidentiality,” Nick whispered back, showing the first sign of sense he had all night. “Is it my turn to ask a question yet?” 

“Maybe. Depends on the question,” Gatsby hummed, leaning back. He had one eyebrow raised and curiosity in his eyes. He seemed to be in a playful mood. Good. Nick could at least use that to his advantage. This might be the only question he would be allowed, so he better make it good. 

“How long have you been in New York?” If he could have, Nick would have slapped himself. One chance, he had  _ one  _ chance, and he wasted it on some small talk.

There was a slight break in Gatsby’s cool, manipulative act, Nick’s question catching him off guard. “Excuse me?” Feeling like a fool, Nick repeated the question. 

“I don’t have to answer that,” Gatsby huffed, tracing the filigree on the head of his cane. 

“Then that means I get a freebie to one of your questions,” Nick shot back, knowing he was pushing his luck. Gatsby stared at him a moment through squinted eyes, taking his partner seriously for the first time, before assenting to the deal. 

“What did you see in the warehouse?” 

Nick hung his head. “Everything.” He needed to save his declining card for another round. Besides, not answering this question would be just as damning as answering it was. Nick watched for Gatsby’s reaction carefully. There was barely any. He nodded to himself as he continued to play with his cane. 

“Do you have any evidence?” 

“My notes,” Nick replied. Gatsby had already seen the notepad. What he hadn’t seen was the camera. Technically, he was still answering the question, just not in its entirety. Gatsby fell silent after this, taking a moment to think to himself and have some more coffee. Nick took this opportunity to ask another question. 

“How many siblings do you have?”

Gatsby coughed, his carefully constructed image slipping once more. He stared at Nick again, this time trying to decide if he was stupid or not. After a beat, Gatsby tentatively responded. 

“Only child,” he admitted, probably not wanting to give Nick another ‘freebie’. Nick hummed and nursed his own cup of coffee. He could feel Gatsby’s incredulous gaze lingering on him and he couldn’t help but smile to himself. Some of the power was shifting back to him. Maybe he could make this small talk gag work. 

“How did you find out about the meet up?” Gatsby pursued his line of questioning. However, his protected exterior seemed to be softening, if only a little. 

“With my magic P.I. skills,” Nick shot back, not missing a beat. Sure, put him in the line of fire, but don’t bring his informants into this. “What are some of your hobbies?”

Gatsby laughed this time at Nick’s question. Not a cruel one, or a performed one, but a genuinely joyful laugh. The cup in Nick’s hands slipped a little. He could listen to that sound all night through until morning. 

“I don’t have time for hobbies,” Gatsby shook his head as his laughter died off. “I have my business.” 

“That doesn’t sound very satisfying,” Nick tsked. “A life without hobbies sounds incredibly dull.” Gatsby gave him that look again, the one where he was trying to deduce his IQ levels, albeit more amused this time around. 

“Oh, the King’s life is never dull,” he assured Nick with a wink. Nick could feel his skin burn underneath his collar. He quickly took another sip of coffee to hide his blush. “How much did they pay you, whichever fool sicced you after me?”

Nick blushed again, this time out of embarrassment. He wasn’t in the habit of discussing money, since he never had any, especially with his targets. Though, to be fair, if someone had a price on his head, he’d want to know how much he was worth. “Sixteen hundred,” Nick admitted, still hardly believing the pay day he would receive if he turned Gatsby in...and how close he was to losing it all. 

Gatsby scoffed and waved his hand. “Rip off. I’m worth much more than sixteen hundred. I’m insulted, really. For you, aswell. You should demand a higher sum.”

Nick’s stomach fluttered a little. What an honor. The King of Manhattan was insulted for  _ him. _ “I thought it was a good price. I’ve never seen a higher pay before.” 

Gatsby’s brows knit together as he gave Nick a once over for the thousandth time that night. Everything new Nick did deemed a reevaluation from Gatsby. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve said it was concern etched on the crime boss’ face. 

“I can give you five times the amount,” Jay said point blank, no trace of a joke on his face. Now it was Nick’s turn to cough.  _ Eight thousand dollars? _ That was an entire year’s earnings just like that. The things he could do with that amount of money. He could get a proper home and wouldn’t have to live in the spare room of his office space anymore. Speaking of the office, he could upgrade that, too! He might even be able to take on a partner so that he could get a day off every once in a while- no. There was no way he could accept this money. For one thing, it was coming from a crime boss. Any chances of the money being clean were slim. If he did accept the buyout, what then? He’d be in debt to Mr. J. Gatsby, another authority figure in his pocket. Even if it meant that he would be stuck living in a glorified closet, Nick would remain the last man on the moral front lines of this city. 

“I don’t take bribes from criminals.” 

Gatsby stiffened at the statement, the word ‘criminal’ hanging in the air between them. He vaguely resembled a wild dog, tensed with a barely hidden snarl slowly making its way to the surface. The easy mood that had slowly built between them had vanished. Gatsby relaxed his posture but the danger didn’t leave his eyes. A secret smile slid onto his face. “Then perhaps,” Gatsby shifted, his fingers just brushing against Nick’s across the table, “there’s another way I can win you.” Under the table, a foreign leg slid against Nick’s. He struggled to swallow and squirmed a little, but he didn’t move his leg. 

“I can’t be bought,” he choked, tongue too heavy and throat too thick to effectively get the words out. Gatsby laughed quietly. 

“I’m not talking about money anymore, Old Sport.” 

“Decline to answer.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

Nick glanced out into the restaurant. They were the only ones left in the dining area, the staff having retreated to the kitchen. “You’ll kill me,” he thought aloud. 

Another laugh from Gatsby. “You’ll have to trust that I won’t.” 

“I could just leave,” Nick tried to threaten as one of Gatsby’s hands encompassed his. 

“You can’t. You won’t.” All the power was in Gatsby’s hands now. He had won the game. There was never any chance of Nick having any sort of influence in this interaction. Any sway he previously thought was his was all but imagined; an illusion that Gatsby let him play with for a while. Had this been Gatsby’s plan all along, or had he formulated it along the way? It had to be a plan. It was inconceivable that Gatsby was at all serious about the not so subtle proposition he now made to Nick. Then again, it was hard to believe it was fake with the way his thumb pressed delightful little circles into his wrist or the drag of his foot on the back of Nick’s leg. Could this be both a plan for handling business and pleasure? 

A thought that was very unlike Nick invaded his head.  _ Don’t think. Just do.  _

“Where do you intend on ‘winning’ me?” He breathed out, staring hard at their hands interlocked on the surface of the table rather than make eye contact, allowing Gatsby to see just how blown his pupils had become. There was a moment’s pause while Gatsby reveled in his easy victory. He stood, not letting go of Nick’s wrist. 

“Follow me.” 

***

Nick was able to remain remarkably silent as he moved around the darkened room, gathering his belongings. He wanted to get out of the spacious apartment before his bed-mate had the chance to wake up. Following their conversation turned seduction in the restaurant, Gatsby had led them down a block where one of his properties just happened to be located. At the time, Nick wondered at the lucky circumstance and just how coincidental it actually might be. If there hadn’t been a place nearby, he probably would’ve lost his nerve. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case tonight. 

Even after all that, Nick wasn’t entirely sure that his survival was assured. Sex or not, Gatsby was still King of Manhattan and he was still a P.I. He swallowed the urge to collapse and think through what he had done. There was plenty of time for thinking and evaluating on the walk home. It was now between four and five in the morning. He didn’t imagine there were many cabs about at this hour, at least not ones he would trust. Haphazardly dressed and sure that he was missing at least a few things, Nick slipped out of the apartment, Gatsby still in bed, the covers draped picturesquely over his body in the waning moonlight. 

This was...complicated, to say the least. It was a risk any time he indulged his sexual or romantic preferences, but this was a whole new level. Gatsby had both the means and motive to dispatch him or blackmail him or anything else that might ruin Nick. This was nothing to say of the moral dilemma of taking up relations with his target. Still, Nick couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it. Not the coffee or conversation they shared, nor the feel of Jay’s skin against his and the intense intermingling of their breath. He grew warm to remember the syncing of their heartbeats and the look on Gatsby’s face. 

Undoubtedly, this was to remain a one time experience, but Nick mourned the loss of what the two of them could be. Buying into his ridiculous imagination for a moment, he pictured Jay needing him this way again and what he might say when the situation presented itself. First, he pictured himself declining and then even better, he imagined what it would feel like to say yes: how wrong it would be to carry on this relationship, knowing what they knew, and just how much more exhilarating touching each other would be because of it. 

Nick was sure he was quite the spectacle coming home: hair messed, half and improperly dressed with his tie hanging around his shoulders and jacket unbuttoned. Those that passed him might have expected him to be a drunk finally leaving a speakeasy only to be confused when no scent of alcohol followed after him. Eventually, just as the horizon started to lighten, Nick made it back to his office slash room. Exhausted as he was, sleep would have to wait. He had evidence to compile. 

He prepped the closet to develop the photos he took. He patted his pockets for his notebook but found them empty. The pad was nowhere to be found. Not in his jacket, pants, or vest. It may have fallen out on the way home, but Nick severely doubted that. Gatsby played a part in this somehow. He knew about the notepad, and Nick was sure he was missing something when he left in a rush that morning. It wasn’t as if he would’ve noticed Gatsby stealing or destroying the notebook anyways; he was...preoccupied at the time. Fine. Let Gatsby have his notes. He had something far better. Photographs. For all of Gatsby’s scheming and distractions, he had failed to relieve Nick of his camera. 

Not sure if he had anything worthwhile on his device, Nick wasted no time in developing the photos. What else was he going to do for the next few hours anyhow? Pine? There was no pining from Nick, certainly not for Mr. J. Gatsby. At least, until the photos finished developing. There was no mistaking that face. Nick had managed to get a clear shot, multiple in fact, of Gatsby. He had photos of the alcohol and some of the other thugs as well, but those he didn’t care about as much. Even in black and white, his charm was jarring in the best way. Nick couldn’t keep from staring at the photo. Something worrying bloomed in his chest. For the first time in his career, Nick Carraway felt doubt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my lovely beta, who I would be failing at this without. Also, I kept this chapter more PG13 but don't worry, there's still three more chapters to get into it. Comments are always welcome! Also, if anyone can find the accidental monty python reference, kudos to YOU


	3. What Did You Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick deals with some major conflictions and may or may not resolve them. Also, Jay is a cheeky little crime boss. How many codenames does one man need?

“Mr. Carraway, package for you,” his secretary, Mrs. Nowak, said in lieu of a greeting that morning. She entered his office, still wearing her coat and cap, carrying in a large flat box tied with some string. 

Nick hastily dropped the picture he was looking at, shuffling around some papers so she wouldn’t see it. It had been two weeks since the morning he had developed them and two weeks since the unforgettable night that had preceded it. He still hadn’t decided what to do with them. Each time he pulled them out to mull it over he ended up staring at each photograph, wasting precious time. Mr. Buchanan had been trying to get in contact with him, but he kept skirting his phone calls and correspondence, having Mrs. Nowak shut him down with whatever generic excuse as she saw fit. 

“Again, Mrs. Nowak? That makes three times this week!” She nodded, just as flabbergasted as Nick was. The packages had started showing up a few days ago. There was no indication of a return address or any clue to the identity of the sender. The first package had been a set of ridiculously elegant fountain pens. Nick had been thrilled. He hated using pencils with how easily they broke and dulled so quickly. The simple joy brought by a smooth flowing pen was not the type of luxury Nick could bring himself to overlook. He and Mrs. Nowak simply assumed that it must’ve been an extra thank you gift from a past client. 

The morning after that, a crate was delivered to the office. Inside was the latest typewriter model. That particular gift he bestowed upon Mrs. Nowak. He had intended to get her a new typewriter. The keys on her old model were constantly sticking and replacing the ink was a trial and a half. Still, she never once complained. She deserved it, and in any case, Nick didn’t usually use a typewriter. He was awful at writing up the standard report details. Mrs. Nowak usually took care of the mundane parts before Nick took over. Neither harbored any clue as to who sent the typewriter, thought both suspected it must be the same sender. Both packages had shown up with no defining details. 

Mrs. Nowak put the new delivery on his desk, but didn’t leave the room. She crossed her arms and looked at Nick expectantly. Her way of speaking had quickly endeared itself to Nick when he had first hired her. In broken and heavily accented English, she asked, “Opening?” 

“What? Oh! Yes, of course,” he conceded, pulling at the string. She was never involved directly with any of his cases, for safety reasons, so she was anxious to be a part of this mini mystery of the anonymous gifter. Nick lifted the lid of the box and Mrs. Nowak let out a soft sound of awe. He couldn’t blame her. Laying in the box was a new suit. It was sleek and colored a deep blue. A matching bowtie and pocket square were neatly folded over the top. He slowly lifted the jacket from the box and Mrs. Nowak appreciatively felt one of the sleeves. Just by looking at it, Nick could tell it had been tailored to his specifications. Suddenly his throat felt very tight and his palms began to sweat. He dropped the jacket. 

“Who is send it?” She asked, glancing between the suit and Nick. 

“I don’t know,” Nick choked out, even though he had a very clear idea of who the sender was now. _It didn’t make sense._ Nick hadn’t expected any further contact with Gatsby after that night, aside from a possible hit job. He was, afterall, the only law figure who had seen the King and lived to tell the tale, even if he wasn’t sure he was going to tell the tale or not. And what was to stop Gatsby from thinking he had gotten what he wanted? He couldn’t pay Nick off the usual way, so they had taken a less conventional route. There must have been some lingering uncertainty on Gatsby’s end, as there was with Nick. Maybe this was his way of double checking that his silence was bought. 

“I’m going out, Mrs. Nowak,” Nick announced, hastily put the lid back on the box. “Please put the suit somewhere else in the meantime. Mrs. Nowak nodded, but Nick didn’t see it as he was already out the door. 

He needed to clear his head, as impossible as it seemed. Nick had crossed a line, he knew he was crossing it the moment he let Jay pull him into that apartment. Now it was time to face the facts, pay the piper. Only it seemed the piper was paying him. The gifts needed to be returned; that was only right. Keeping them would be the same as accepting a cash bribe, and that was still a boundary that Nick refused to push. There was only one hitch to this plan though -- he couldn’t exactly track Gatsby down and physically hand the gifts back. He was determined to never see Gatsby again. It was the only way to be sure to keep his wits about him. Gatsby had a certain effect on him; he wasn’t himself around the man, unable to control his impulses. Why was that bad again? Right, because he was a crime boss. _The_ crime boss. His crime boss. Not his as in _his_ but his as in his target. Nick let out an audible annoyed shout, startling those walking near him. This was spiraling out of control. Tomorrow morning, he’d figure it out by tomorrow morning. 

The following morning, Nick left the office, envelope tucked inside his coat. In the envelope were the damned wonderful pictures of the warehouse meeting. He headed toward the nearest police station, resolved to hand them in. With a face to put to the name, a city-wide effort could easily be taken underway by the proper authorities. It wouldn’t take long to nail Gatsby down. Halfway to the station, Nick, without wavering in his pace, turned on his heel and returned to the office. There was no rhyme or reason to this decision. He had every incentive to turn Gatsby in, but he couldn’t bring himself to it, no matter how many resolutions he made up. 

With a sense of shame, he walked back into the waiting room where Mrs. Nowak was compiling the facts of a report for him. “How was going?” she greeted cordially. Nick waved his hand tiredly before passing it over his face. 

“It did not go,” he admitted tiredly. He crossed the small space to his office, Mrs. Nowak making a sympathetic sound. 

“Oh, there is man the office.” 

Nick let go of the half turned handle and gave Mrs. Nowak a quizzical look. “What man?”

“Needed speak to you. Seemed urgent and wanting to wait in office. Mr. Arthur Fitz,” Mrs. Nowak informed him. Nick sighed. Taking a new case was the last thing on his mind but by god he needed the money. He thanked Mrs. Nowak before straightening himself. Maybe a new case was exactly what he needed; take his mind off things, at least for a little while. 

Nick stopped dead in his tracks, trapped between the door and his desk. Sitting leisurely in the rickety wooden chair provided for clients was the one man he could not easily forget, nor the one he wanted to be thinking about at this moment. Mr. Gatsby turned when Nick entered the room and gave him a polite smile. Nick felt like both freezing and melting all at once. 

“Good to see you again, Old Sport.” 

Nick stood for a few seconds longer, mouth hanging open, before hurrying over to his desk. There needed to be distance and objects between them, lots of distance and lots of objects. There was a small, fine, wooden box on his desk that hadn’t been there before, but Nick ignored it for the time being. 

“Arthur Fitz? Really? One would think that the King…” Nick halted in his critique abruptly before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Arthur. Like King Arthur.”

“Guilty,” Gatsby let out a soft chuckle. God, Nick wanted to drown in the sound and strangle the man in front of him at the same time. The crime boss was strangely gifted at bringing out the dual aspects of his personality. 

“I’m assuming you’re the one who has been sending gifts to my office?”

“Ah, guilty again,” Gatsby held up his hands in mock surrender. Nick huffed, unsure of whether he was amused or not at how freely Gatsby used the word “guilty” to describe himself. 

“How did you know where to send your bribes anyhow?” 

Gatsby cocked an eyebrow. “I have eyes all over this city. It wasn’t too hard to find you.” 

Nick sank into his desk chair, chewing on his cheek. He had been worried about this, about Gatsby catching up with him once he knew what Nick looked like. Though, to be fair, he had been expecting hit men, not presents. Speaking of presents, Nick turned his attention to the package on his desk. He looked between the case and Gatsby, hoping that in the silence, the other man would supply an explanation. He didn’t. 

“Are you going to open it or not?” Gatsby sighed, feigning disinterest, though Nick guessed the crime boss was eager to see his reaction from the way he gripped his cane. Prompted, Nick undid the clasp and lifted the lid. No matter what was inside, Nick was determined to have no reaction. This turned out to be easier said than done. 

Cigars were packed neatly in two long rows, a sterling silver cutter fastened to the inside of the lid. Nick’s eye may have widened for a second, but he got them under control. 

“It’s a box of cigars,” he stated the obvious, leaning back in his chair. 

“No,” Gatsby let out an annoyed huff of air before pursing his lips. 

“Oh, so they’re not cigars?” Nick knew he was pushing his luck toying with Gatsby like this, but he couldn’t help himself. It was easy to forget just how terrifying Gatsby was capable of being when actually talking to him. Part of him felt like an old friend just stopping by for a quick visit. It was probably this ability to put his unassuming guests at ease that made him so deadly. 

“No, they are cigars”- Gatsby rolled his eyes -“but they’re very nice ones, imported from Cuba.”

Nick snapped the lid shut. “I see. You’re trying to buy me off.”

“Not at all!” Gatsby protested. A lie. “There are no strings attached.”

Nick narrowed his eyes and let himself process for a moment. It really was just a gift? That didn’t make any sense. What could possibly have inspired Gatsby, his enemy by all accounts, to give him gifts? “So...you really don’t want anything in return?” Nick thought aloud. 

Gatsby hummed to himself before locking eyes with Nick, “Well, not anything you’re not willing to give up voluntarily.” The tone of his voice sent shivers down Nick’s spine. Though they only spent one night together, it was easy to discern Gatsby’s bedroom voice. 

He tried at a light-hearted laugh which came out more of a nervous chuckle. “I'm confused. Are you trying to buy my silence or my body?” 

Gatsby’s cheeks went a little pink. He looked affronted at being accused of such a thing. “Just accept the cigars. It’s rude to refuse a gift.” 

Nick drummed his fingers over the top of the case. “I can’t. You know I can’t.” He glanced up to gauge Gatsby’s reaction as he continued. 

“I’ve already compromised my career and my morality far enough. I’m not saying- I don’t regret what I did, what we did. But I can’t risk it happening again. I’m dedicated to my work, as are you, I’m sure. Playing with this kind of fire, we’re sure to get burned.” 

He pushed the case across the desk towards Gatsby. Now it was his turn to process. He fiddled with the head of his cane, a habit of his while thinking, Nick noticed. “Yours is a valid argument,” he conceded, “Yet, consider this, ‘Tim’-” Nick flushed and looked down “-Having the King of Manhattan on your side isn’t such a bad thing.” 

Gatsby stood and straightened out his suit. “If you agree, show up at this location tonight,” He handed Nick a folded card. “Tell the man at the door that you’re a special guest of Arthur’s and that you’re there to borrow some ‘coffin varnish’. If not, then I can promise you’ll never have to worry about seeing me again.” He let his fingers brush against Nicks as he passed off the card, lingering there for a moment. The subtlest of smiles played on his lips before he excused himself. Once he had gone, Nick let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. 

* * *

What the hell was he thinking? Nick wasn’t acting at all like himself. For hours he had grappled with himself in his office. He had stared at the address Gatsby had given him for so long, he had memorized it. His initial gut reaction was one of a guilty thrill. Afterall, he had been personally invited by the most attractive man he had ever met to spend some time with him, most likely at his personal speakeasy if the code he was given was anything to go by. The notion of being secretive, of knowingly doing wrong, sent an alarming giddiness throughout him. 

At the same time, Nick had a duty to this city. Gatsby had given him ample means and opportunity to turn against him. If Nick was smart, he would turn in his information to the proper authorities. However, Gatsby was too promising of an enigma to pass up. Up until now, the crime boss had been especially careful, almost to a level of paranoia. Why now would he choose to throw that caution away and why with Nick, of all people? Putting answers before duty, Nick had decided to show up to the secret location. That, he wasn’t too embarrassed about. No, what had pushed his impulsivity over the line was the suit he had worn. It was the suit that Gatsby had sent him that very morning. If he was going to get into the speakeasy, he might as well look the part. 

The address belonged to a rinky-dink dry cleaners in a quieter part of town, just outside the circus of the inner city. Even at this late hour, they were still open. Nick stepped inside, a bell ringing over his head as the door swung open. A rough-looking man standing guard behind the counter looked up when he entered, but said nothing. 

“I’m a friend of Arthur’s,” Nick announced, remembering Gatsby’s instructions, “I’m here to borrow some coffin varnish.” 

The man raised an eyebrow, looked Nick up and down, and shrugged his shoulders. He motioned for Nick to follow him into the backroom, which Nick did after a moment of hesitation. He was all in now; no going back. 

The back room looked exactly how one might expect a backroom in a dry cleaners to look like, aside from the secret door. Painted to seamlessly blend in with the far wall, Nick jumped a little when the man pulled the door open. The other side revealed a short hallway to a second door. Nick scoffed under his breath. _There certainly isn’t any lack in precaution._

Just beyond the second door, the speakeasy awaited. Slightly below ground, a set of steps led guests to the main floor. A jazz band played a soft, mournful melody from the stage in the corner. In the center of the room was a dimly lit dance floor, numerous tables scattered along the perimeter for people who were only there to drink, talk, and listen to the music. What surprised Nick the most was how crowded the space was. Outside of this room, it was impossible to hear anything that might hint at the illegal gathering. Once inside, though, the buzz of conversation and life was omnipresent. Nick made his way hesitantly into the crowd. Any number of people here were likely the sort he would regularly be hired to investigate. It was odd to move amongst them when he so distinctly felt like he didn’t belong. How on earth was he supposed to find and have a private conversation with Gatsby in this environment? 

An disembodied hand appeared from the crowd and ran smoothly up and around his arm. Looking down, Nick recognized the cane. Looking up, he recognized the face. 

“You came,” Gatsby stated, his tone suggesting that he was not at all surprised. Still, the expression on his face was pleased, the gentle emotion still loud enough for Nick to perceive. 

“Yes, and I feel a bit foolish for doing so,” Nick admitted, easing into the grip Gatsby had on his arm. Was it really only a few weeks ago where they had met in a similar, much more tense, position? 

“Well-” Gatsby grinned “-it’s just like how one of my favorite sayings goes: ‘if it doesn’t end up killing you, is it really worth doing?’” The sentiment wasn’t exactly comforting, but Nick knew the exact feeling. It was the driving force that brought him to where he was now. Gatsby let go of Nick’s arm and motioned with a subtle flick of his head for him to follow. He led the way to the back of the speakeasy where there was another trick wall.

Instead of plaster, stone, or steel, this wall was made of paper-like lace. It was impossible to see into the private booth separated from the speakeasy by the wall, but effortless to see outward from the booth. For added measure, there were some heavy set velvet curtains on the booth side of the wall that could be drawn for total privacy. Details were hazy, but Nick could still make out shapes and colors. 

“Extraordinary,” Nick breathed out while Gatsby made himself comfortable on the plush seat that faced the wall. The inside of the private room was just as intriguing. Attached to all the walls, except for the trick one, was a luxurious banquette. The room was dark, elegant, yet cozy. Gatsby stretched one leg out and watched Nick’s surveyal with an amused glint in his eye. 

“This is my,” he paused, searching for the right word, “sanctuary. I can oversee the entire space from here, but no one can see me. It’s liberating, in a way,” Gatsby sighed. Nick nodded, still standing awkwardly by the false wall. 

“It’s a nice little refuge,” Nick supplied after a moment of silence. Gatsby let out a sharp, amused breath. Again, silence between them. 

“My name is Nick, by the way, not Tim, but I guess you already knew that,” Nick’s volume faltered at the end of his sentence. He always sounded so simple around Gatsby. He hated it. More than anything he wanted to prove that he had a worthy and equal mind. 

Gatsby smiled, a hand moving to try and cover it. “I knew your name was Carraway. Didn't know about the Nick.” _Of course._ He fell to the seat far away from Gatsby and passed a hand over his eyes. A soft laugh came over from the left of him. Fantastic, Gatsby was laughing at him now. 

“Nick,” the other man hummed, mulling over the name. “I suppose it suits you. It’s common, unassuming. It doesn’t bring any sort of expectation with it.” Nick didn’t respond, but he clenched his jaw. He couldn’t tell if the other man was trying to give him some sort of twisted compliment or egg him on. Either way, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

“I’ll tell you my name, if it makes you feel better.” Again, Nick didn’t respond. “It’s Jay.” 

“Yes, I know. Mr. J. Gatsby. You go by your initial?” 

Gatsby laughed. “No. My name is Jay. Everyone just assumed it was an initial and I couldn’t be bothered to correct them.” That got Nick to react. He turned his face away from where he had been staring out the paper wall to look at Jay. The lines of his face were soft in this lighting, his expression gentle and expectant. Here, he really could be Jay and not the King of Manhattan. With a pang of longing, Nick realized he looked the same way he had on the night they had spent together; so serene and painfully human. 

Nick stood and relocated himself to sit right next to Jay. “Why did you ask me to come here tonight?” 

“I don’t know,” Jay answered truthfully. A breath passed between them before they fell into one another. There was nothing innocent or sweet about the kiss. With the risks so high, both in the moment and in general, there was no room for hesitancy. It was wrong of him to be here and the thought of it only drove Nick onward. Even the slightest touch from Jay was intoxicating and his hands seemed to be everywhere all at once: in his hair, at his neck, on his thigh. Nick shoved his fingers into Gatsby’s meticulously kept hair, keeping their lips locked together. Jay’s tongue pressed against his lips until he opened his mouth enough to let it slip in. Normally, it would be an unpleasant experience, but his partner knew what he was doing. 

Their sides were pressed flush against each other, their torsos having to twist at a strange angle. Breaking away for the briefest of seconds, Nick readjusted himself, swinging a leg over Jay’s lap so that he was straddling him. Taking advantage of their new position, Jay bit at the place where Nick’s jaw met his neck. He worked the area in a cycle of bites and kisses while deftly loosening both tie and collar. Nick bit down on his cheek to hold back a moan, still vaguely aware that anyone directly outside might be able to hear him. 

His tie slithered to the floor and Jay moved down his neck, leaving a series of love bites across the sensitive skin. Nick had his arms around his lover’s shoulders, the firm muscles beneath his finger tips the only thing grounding him. Gatsby’s hands moved to glide teasingly up the tops of his thighs, resting on his hips before moving down to grope his ass. Nick’s head fell back, exposing more of his neck to Jay. 

This was more than he had bargained for when he had decided to show his face tonight. Nick had come with questions and while he still hadn’t answered them, this was far better. Of course, he had missed Jay’s touch, the feel of his lips hot on his skin, the slightly desperate twinge his moans had as if he would never be satisfied with what was given. The air around them became too hot to comfortably wear their jackets. With his suit coat out of the way, the chest pressed against his felt all the more welcoming. He was addicted to Gatsby, he concluded as a hand snuck between his legs. But what an oh-so-rewarding addiction. 

* * *

Though he hadn’t received a moment of sleep during the night, Nick wasn’t tired. He was in his own bed, an arm thrown across Gatsby’s bare chest. He slowly ran a thumb back and forth across the warm skin matching the slow rise and fall of each breath, but he knew that Gatsby wasn’t asleep either. A feeble light began to peak through the blinds of the room’s one window. 

Nick’s one room was a far cry from the loft Jay had taken him back to last time they slept together. The paint on the walls had faded with time and they lacked decoration except for the wall Nick dedicated for compiling and connecting evidence, a feature Jay had found all too amusing when he first noticed it between sessions last night. His bedding was cheap and rough, but for the first time, he wasn’t itching to hop out of it the moment the sun rose. Jay shifted, pressing his lips to Nick’s hairline, not so much as kissing his forehead as resting his lips there. Joyful flutters exploded in his chest, as they had multiple times during the night, and he melted a little more into Jay’s embrace. 

A soft exhale from Jay ghosted across his curls. “I should probably be going,” he murmured. Nick started, his head jumping off of Jay’s shoulder. He examined the face of the man underneath him. His expression was neutral, something lurking just underneath. 

“Why?” 

“I don’t want to stay long enough for you to start regretting doing things with me...with another man.” 

Nick shook his head, sitting up a little straighter. “You think I would have regrets just because you’re a man?” The idea was so ludicrous to Nick it was almost funny. A glance at Jay’s downcast look told him that this was no joke. 

“Jay,” Nick started in a clear, yet gentle voice, “I’ve known who I am for a long time. I know what I like and I’ve never had any regrets about it.” He brushed Jay’s jaw lightly with the tips of his fingers just to make extra sure that Jay was paying attention. “And neither should you.” 

The corners of Jay’s mouth twitched upward before he frowned again. “But earlier you mentioned ‘playing with fire’ and ‘getting burned’?” 

Nick blushed a little and chewed the inside of his cheek before answering, “I was referring to you being the ‘King of Manhattan’ and me being a P.I.” 

“Oh! Well that’s nothing,” Jay pulled Nick back down onto his shoulder, resuming the position they had previously been in. Nick buried his face into Jay’s neck, breaking out in a grin in spite of himself. 

“A minor issue,” Nick added, his words vibrating against Jay’s neck. He ended his statement with a kiss and a happy hum from Jay. Even in the bliss of the morning after, a dark thought rooted itself at the back of Nick’s mind: a minor issue for how long?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely beta! Comments are always appreciated!  
> Writing this I'm trying so hard to not pull a Smeyer and write something from Jay's perspective. Though to be fair, I can see this au leading directly into another one with the current ending I have planned. Two part series anyone?

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! According to the inflation calculator, Nick is paid around 24,000 to get Gatsby. From this we learn that Tom is a cheapskate and that Nick is broke and desperate, just like we all are. 
> 
> It is SO GOOD to be writing again!  
> Hope to have the next chapter up within the next day or two. Then again, it is finals week, so afterwards my schedule will be much more open. This is going to be a shorter, action packed fic, beta'd by the fantastic @flymetcthmccn. They have a fic up too, so absolutely pop over and read it! As always, comments are more than welcome!


End file.
